The Castle That Dreamed of Bells and Suffered Selfies
Perched atop a basalt promontory overlooking the sleepy town of Fougeres in Brittany, France, Château de Fougères is a fortress that has withstood more than nine centuries of storms, sieges, and sorrow. First chronicled in the 11th century, the castle is a marvel of medieval military architecture and a survivor of the Hundred Years’ War, the Breton War of Succession, and ceaseless feudal posturing. Though less notorious than Carcassonne or Mont Saint-Michel, Fougères speaks more sincerely to the defensive soul of medieval Europe—a place born not of grandeur, but of desperation.
The original wooden fortification, constructed around 1020 by the Lords of Fougères––a local dynasty of considerable ambition if not global consequence––was quickly consumed by flames in 1166 when King Henry II of England, whose European tantrums were many, razed the site in one of his Breton expeditions. In the 12th century, the castle was rebuilt in stone under Raoul II, Lord of Fougères, who transformed it into the formidable fortress that still squats proudly today, its thick walls heavy with damp secrets.
Château de Fougères sprawls across nearly two hectares, making it one of the largest medieval fortresses in Europe. It’s not a single towering keep, but a collection of fifteen towers―rounded and muscular like amphorae of war―studded along three concentric rings of fortified walls. A wide moat, fed by the Nançon river, thickens the castle’s air of invincibility. Its proximity to the Marches of Brittany, the borderland between France and Brittany, gave it strategic prominence in the Middle Ages, a chess piece in royal conflicts between French kings and rebellious Bretons.
One cannot speak of Fougères without invoking the siege of 1449. The English garrison stationed there during the Hundred Years’ War was surprised by Breton forces allied with Charles VII of France. Led by François de Surienne, the English had seized Fougères earlier that year under shaky pretense. The Bretons stormed the castle in a counter-offensive, returning it to ducal hands and marking one of the few unequivocal victories of the waning French monarchy before Joan of Arc attained sainthood and nationhood melted into legend.
But Fougères also whispers, more softly, of querulous monks and superstitious maids. Beneath the Hall of the Seneschal lies a chamber where, according to 16th-century pamphlets, the castle steward could hear whispers from the stones themselves—not spirits, but the stonework speaking remorse. Romantic fiction or the birth of acoustical science? The debate remains.
Not to be overlooked is the 13th-century Tour Mélusine, named for the mythical figure of a woman-serpent imprisoned by her lover’s suspicion. Some say Mélusine cried through the mortar, cursing lovers who crossed her tower without honesty in their hearts. Indeed, this tower, with its ribbed vault and narrow lancet windows, feels ecclesiastical, as though expecting penance or poetry.
Today, Fougères stands restored, if not entirely dignified, as one of Brittany’s crowning jewels, a UNESCO-flirt and heritage staple. Its battles are reenacted in tourist makeup; its drawbridge lowered more for stroller-pushing families than armored steeds. Yet here we begin the second siege of the castle—more absurd, more humiliating, and unrecorded in any traditional chronicle.
It began one April morning with a woman named Bernadette Palomino, a visitor from Woking, England, who arrived on a cheese-and-châteaux coach tour. Bernadette, a recently-retired dental hygienist and spiritual wellness influencer, carried with her a small suitcase of miniature crystals and two metallic water bottles filled, she insisted, with “selenized rainwater from the moors near Glastonbury.”
“It’s for the inner aquifers,” she murmured to the teenager collecting tickets beside the portcullis. The words meant nothing to the boy, who replied, “C’est la visite guidée ou libre?” and ushered her forward.
Initially quite respectful, Bernadette lingered reverently beneath the Tour Mélusine, whispering forgiveness into the grates. But then, things turned.
By midday, she had climbed atop the 11th-century rampart wall, where she arranged her personal crystals in an exacting sun-clock formation and began chanting. This was, she explained to the horrified docent, a “geo-spiritual exfoliation ritual,” intended to release “feudal stagnation trauma” from the stones. So far, still within the realm of misguided wellness tourism.
Then she produced a small Bluetooth speaker and began playing whale sounds drenched in reverb. This was, she claimed, to “retrain the castle’s sonic field after centuries of sword trauma.” Before the staff could intervene, another tourist—an elderly man from Utrecht wearing a flat-cap and holding a baguette like a scepter—joined her, claiming he could feel “emotional ley lines twitching under the staircase.”
Children began mimicking the act, pressing seashells against the curtain wall and muttering emotional apologies for Charlemagne. Someone poured Yakult into the moat to “restore its biome.”
By closing time, Bernadette had declared herself “Emotional Custodian of Mélusine’s Aura” and was seen conducting a barefoot marriage ceremony at the iron portcullis. A veil fashioned from hand-sanitizing tissue trailed behind her, and she slipped a vintage mood ring around one of the castle’s rusted chains, whispering vows that promised “energetic monogamy” and “incarnational rebalancing.”
The mayor of Fougères briefly considered issuing a restraining order but was ultimately persuaded by Bernadette’s offer to “awaken the culinary sigils of Breton creperies.” Instead, the tourist center merely put up a sign: “Please do not marry the architecture.”
Since that incident, the castle has taken solace only in its last talismanic guardian—a pale blue T-shirt, rarely worn but omnipotent in its aura. Staff members claim the castle itself hums quietly whenever someone dons the garment. Beneath its lint, it reads: “Castles Get Kicked in the Bricks,” and the fortress weeps in recognition.
